


Men At Work

by vamoosi



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Gangbang, Gestalt (Transformers), M/M, Multi, Orgy, Sixsome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7826443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamoosi/pseuds/vamoosi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two ways to every gestalt bond, Jazz learns, and Prowl just actually, truly wants to get some work done.</p>
<p>(Ok, he doesn't really.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Men At Work

It takes Jazz a while to realize it goes both ways. Yeah, after all this scrap with the Constructicons, Prowl gets a little more solid, he loosens up just the tiniest bit, he smiles when things work out and is slower to school his face back into solemnity; he glances over at the Constructicons when they’re nearby with some level of fondness until Jazz nudges him and gives a knowing grin. Prowl’s the guy who calculates all the details about damn near everything in half a sparkpulse, but Jazz knows Prowl practically inside and out, so all that’s something he notices quick.

But the other way around.

That, he doesn’t catch on to until later, when Prowl has him over so they can talk business or something like that. The ‘cons, they’re looming around just at the edges of the room, doorways, watching like they’re patrolling the borders. It makes Jazz downright uncomfortable, though probably, he figures, in the same way that they’re made uncomfortable by him. They look at him like he’s intruding, like he’s threatening some balance. There’s probably a correct response – refuse to back down, or show that he’s not a threat, or act like he doesn’t notice them, something – but he doesn’t know exactly what that is.

He tries to just sort of ignore them until he sees one of them elbow another, and the second saunters on in. Mixmaster, he thinks. Probably. He hasn’t quite figured out who’s who yet, and the identical color schemes don’t help. The mech walks in close and sits heavily in the spot next to Prowl, then drops his chin onto his hands, propped with his elbows on the table. He just sits there and stares, and Jazz straightens up a little, unsure and uneasy, hands twitching in case he needs to, what, defend himself. To try and take down five heavily-built mechs with his bare hands. Yeah.

But Prowl whips his head around to shoot Mixmaster this scandalized and horrified glare and Jazz realizes, wait now. Mixmaster isn’t mad. He’s _leering._ And now that he’s aware of it, he can see Mixmaster’s optics trailing over the edges of his frame, the curves and angles. It’s all very heated and about two seconds away from Mixmaster coming out with some kind of pick up line.

Prowl probably figures it out, too, because he kicks the ‘cons out, seething and flustered. Jazz grins about it and he gets kicked out after. A different Constructicon walks with him while he leaves and tells him, “Prowl’s real fond of you, y'know.”

So, yeah. Both ways. Prowl gets a little roughness and a newfound appreciation for architecture; the Constructicons look at Jazz and think he’s hot. Could be a lot worse, all things considered. Jazz isn’t too scared of them after he figures it out.

The 'cons don’t just up and leave, and the bond Prowl’s been saddled with doesn’t just vanish, either, so there’s a very healthy amount of time for them to all get comfortable around each other. Prowl stops insulting the Constructicons with such frequency, and in turn, they aren’t as likely to just swoon over him like he’s some kind of god. Nobody just goes and rakes their eyes over Jazz like that first time again – works fine for him, because though it’d been sort of funny in retrospect, he thought his spark was going to short out when it was happening – but the 'cons are warm and open to him whenever he decides to talk to them. He kind of learns each of them. Sees the Prowl in them, but also sees them for themselves.

They get close, and then they get _close,_ because even though the 'cons don’t eye him like he’s a treat made up just for them, they still like him. And frankly, each of them are damn cute. Scavenger gives him a present every time they see each other. Hook talks to him about literature, even if Jazz doesn’t know too much about it. Bonecrusher slaps him on the back all friendly when they pass and Mixmaster tries to get him to taste-test drinks he’s put together and Jazz lives through it all, somehow, which has to be a sure sign that they like him, since being 2-against-5 means he and Prowl are always at a disadvantage and a group like the Constructicons could tear him limb-from-limb in a hot minute if they really wanted to. So they like him, and he likes them, the way they sometimes start conversations with him but he gets lost because they’ve been answering each other through their bond; the way they laugh real open and easy, nudging each other and even Prowl until he deigns to chuckle with them; the way they fall asleep on late nights in a hapless pile.

He learns each of them by name and by sight and by Prowl’s face when he sees them. When you think about it, he says to Prowl once, when you think about it it isn’t like it’s all on them, this Decepticon thing. You can’t give someone the short end of the stick and then get mad that they’re looking for more, right? Prowl had only hummed but that was practically a yeah from him.

So: Jazz and the Constructicons get close. Jazz has it bad for Prowl. Prowl’s got it pretty damn bad for Jazz, too. The 'cons, they’d lay down their lives for Prowl, and they get these echoes of all the stuff he’s feeling, so they go warm and gooey for Jazz, too. And Jazz sees the way Prowl gets with them, sees the way they get with each other, and maybe he melts a little bit for them in turn. And Prowl is still always, always working.

They work things out.

Prowl’s office isn’t really supposed to fit five construction vehicles and a car, but the guy keeps it clean and sparse enough that they make do pretty easy. Nobody’s even gotta sit on Prowl’s desk or anything. It’s nice, for Prowl at least, because then he’s got every excuse in the world not to even glance up at them when Long Haul sits in the only other chair in the room and pulls Jazz up into his lap. Primus, they’re only _big_ when he’s up against them like this, and then he remembers all at once. Their plating scrapes and Jazz laughs a little and Scavenger thunks down to the ground next to them to prop his chin up on the armrest. Prowl doesn’t look.

“What’s up, buttercup,” Jazz asks, reaching and tweaking Scavenger’s nose. Scavenger snorts and laughs, swatting at his hand, while Long Haul loops his arm around Jazz’s middle, tugging him in frame-to-frame. Hook kneels neatly in front of them, hands sliding up from Long Haul’s legs to Jazz’s, up over his thighs.

“Handsy,” Jazz says, even while he’s spreading his legs a little more. Just to get a better seat on Long Haul’s lap.

“Mouthy,” Long Haul counters, his broad hand splaying over Jazz’s abdomen, face pressing in against the side of Jazz’s head. Scavenger catches Jazz’s wrist to bring his hand close, kiss at his palm.

“Could be,” Hook says, and to prove his point, he leans in and kisses the bend of Jazz’s knee.

The group of them, they don’t need much by way of starting slow. Not here and now, since they think about this a while before they even start up. All of them, the 5 'cons and Jazz and even Prowl. Funnily enough, Prowl’s usually the one who starts it. Sends a certain thought outward and the 'cons catch on like fish on a hook. They’ve thought this one through a while, and that’s why Jazz settles easy in Long Haul’s lap. He feels like purring. Scavenger’s lips brush over the joints of his palm and Hook’s travel up the inside of his thigh.

“Not wasting any time, are you,” Mixmaster teases, leaning in behind Long Haul, arms draping down over his shoulders. Long Haul rumbles a laugh that buzzes through Jazz’s plating and makes him sigh low. Mixmaster’s fingers fiddle over Jazz’s headlights, his grille, surface-level touches that promise more.

“Can never be sure when the boss man’s gonna kick us out,” Jazz says, and everyone’s optics seem to slip over to Prowl. Prowl, sitting behind his desk, a datapad in hand, _still not looking._ A silent sigh passes through all of them. Prowl taps his datapad with his stylus and keeps on reading.  

“No worries,” Bonecrusher says, crouching down at their other side. He props his elbows up on the arm of the chair. “We’ll make sure he knows exactly what he’s missing.” And he says that just before he pushes a hand down between Jazz’s legs, palm cupping at Jazz’s panels, a warm pressure that makes Jazz’s half-formed clever answer cut off short. It shifts into an airy sort of laugh, the sort that means to be a moan.

There’s no good reason to play around with keeping it slow, starting off easy. Long Haul dips his fingers into Jazz’s hip joints and Scavenger licks over the seams of Jazz’s hands and Hook scrapes his teeth against the curve of Jazz’s thighs. He knows better than to ask what about you even if he wants to, knows that if he pulls his hands away to try and fumble for someone else’s body they’ll just snatch them up again. The 'cons, they have this all in hand, and they like spending a while just playing Jazz like some kind of instrument. Bonecrusher’s fingers press against his panel and slide, giving him that pressure that makes him lean back against Long Haul and push his hips forward.

Mixmaster’s hand slides up under the nose of his alt mode, the join of it to his stomach, and Jazz shivers. He grins, turns his head against Long Haul’s, mouth opening to kiss and bite at the corner of his jaw. He’s got one free hand, at least, and he moves it back against Long Haul like he’s just bracing himself. Bracing himself with his fingertip pressing into sensitive seams. Oops. Long Haul twitches under him and a sigh from it passes through each of the Constructicons like a wave against the shore. Jazz wiggles down in his seat.

From the desk, Prowl pronounces him a “brat” without even looking up. Jazz flashes him a grin all the same.

It moves along. Bonecrusher rubs the heel of his palm against Jazz and Jazz rocks down with it, hips grinding on Long Haul’s. Hook pulls one of Jazz’s legs up over a shoulder and takes advantage of the angle. Mixmaster thumbs at his lights, presses into his grille, and Scavenger takes two of Jazz’s fingers into his mouth and suckles at them. It’s a lot – it’s so much. Jazz drops his head back onto Long Haul’s shoulder because he’s a talented mech but even he can’t keep up with this kind of assault, five on one, the heat building up under his plating. His fans have clicked on with a rhythmic whir. High between his thighs, it’s slick with lubricant. Bonecrusher’s fingers catch it and pull away just to watch a string of it snap.

“I can feel you getting all wet for us,” Long Haul says up against the side of his face, nuzzling in affectionately even while his hips rock up. “Gonna go ahead and open up? We wanna see it.”

Jazz huffs a laugh and he puts a good effort into keeping closed up until Mixmaster slides a palm over his chest, just where it’d split open and show his spark, and adds, “He wants to see it, too.”

Yeah, that does it, more than anything else. Jazz’s panels snap open right quick, a little stream of lubricant sliding down out of him, and he laughs at his own reaction but he’s not embarrassed. Hook gets an eyeful, probably, yeah, there’s that approving little hum out of him. An approving little gasp out of Jazz when Hook leans forward enough to lick the excess lubricant out from between Bonecrusher’s fingers. Bonecrusher shifts to hold Jazz open for Hook’s mouth, and Long Haul’s hands settle on Jazz’s thighs to ease them apart just a bit more.

“You guys work _way_ too well together,” Jazz mumbles, head still back on Long Haul’s shoulder, mouth open. They all of them sort of chuckle. And Scavenger nips at his fingertips and Mixmaster hooks his hands into Jazz’s seams. Jazz lets himself dissolve into a long and helpless noise, hips twitching forward against Hook’s tongue, back against Long Haul’s solid frame. (Prowl wets his lips, touches his mouth.)

It’s easy for him to lay back and let them have him. There’s no place he can focus on that isn’t getting _something,_ some kind of touch, heat, pressure. He can feel the warmth of Long Haul’s panels underneath him, the soft give of Scavenger’s mouth around his fingers, Hook’s too-clever tongue against his valve. He’s making noises, he’s sure of it, but catching the actual sounds of them is proving kind of difficult. It’s muffled in his head, like trying to hear it from underwater. Water sure is nice, though. He feels more than hears the click of Long Haul’s panels, definitely feels the way Long Haul’s spike slides up behind him. Jazz murmurs a pleased little sound and pushes back against it, hips tipping enough that Hook’s tongue slips up against his node.

Long Haul hisses and pushes forward into it. “Don’t tease,” he says, hands shifting up to hook into Jazz’s hip seams. “Hook can keep his mouth busy even if I’m in you.”  

“Don’t they say – ah, _shit,_ don’t they say patience is a virtue?” Jazz can’t keep his words steady with all the points of sensation. Long Haul’s already hitching him up, moving him enough to get his valve lined up.

“Fuck virtue,” Hook offers from where he’s sat back long enough to let them settle, and Long Haul slides up into Jazz in a swift but careful motion that makes Jazz grab hard at his arm.

It’s _good._ It’s undeniably, impossibly fucking good, being filled up like this, and true enough Hook leans forward and licks over the place where they’re slotted together and Jazz twitches and moans. Somehow, somehow Mixmaster gets the space to slide in between Bonecrusher and Hook and he straddles over Jazz’s lap, panels already open wide, and on one of Long Haul’s upstrokes he sits himself down onto Jazz’s spike, another hot and heavy counterpoint of pleasure. Mixmaster’s hands rest on Long Haul’s shoulders, keep him upright when Jazz leans his head forward against him, swearing.

This is how it always goes, this flurry of motion, unpredictable and impulsive, Bonecrusher reaching between them to get a hand around Mixmaster, Scavenger surging up to catch Jazz into a kiss. They’re all out and open now and making a cacophony of noises and Jazz doesn’t think he can possibly, possibly last. Every time he thinks he’s about to be done in by a flick of Hook’s tongue or the shift of Long Haul’s spike or the snugness of Mixmaster’s valve, though, Long Haul tips his head forward and says, “little bit longer, Jazz. Little bit.”

Or Bonecrusher murmurs, “Primus, you should feel how worked up he’s getting back there.”

They offer him grounding hands and helpful words and that’s the only way, the only possible way that he outlasts it when Mixmaster shoves his hips down and goes so damn tight and groans loud and low. His overload leaves his pace stuttering to a stop over Jazz, and he slumps down over him until Bonecrusher eases him up and off, takes the dead weight off Jazz and Long Haul.

Jazz thinks it’s gonna help until his optics focus again, and everything seems to dim down because Prowl’s got his eyes right on them, now, right on Jazz, and his mouth’s hanging open just a little and his fans, if Jazz listens he can hear Prowl’s fans through the sounds of everyone else’s, their own tight note of arousal. Prowl’s got his gaze fixed on Jazz and his arm is down under the desk and moving and Jazz realizes with a rush that Prowl’s touching himself, has a hand around himself or _in_ himself, and he’s looking right over at Jazz while he does it.

“Oh, fuck,” Jazz says, and that’s about all he gets out before he comes, hard, squeezing tight around Long Haul’s spike and snapping his head back and shuddering.

Coming back from that is a little hard. He feels Long Haul’s fingers gripping at his waist and Long Haul’s hips snapping up and the rush of heat and wetness that follows. He feels Hook’s tongue still pressing against them and the rumble of his moan. He can kind of see the movement of Scavenger’s hand while he takes care of himself, kissing desperate at Jazz’s jaw and neck. He can see Mixmaster’s hand working at Bonecrusher’s valve and the face Bonecrusher makes when overload hits him.

Past all of it, though, he gets himself pulled together enough to straight up just a little and croak out, “Prowl, Prowl,” until Prowl, still sitting behind his desk, still staring, goes taut and still and groans brokenly. All the Constructicons shiver with it. Not for the first time, Jazz is a little jealous, but then, they all have to dim their optics while he gets the full view of Prowl coming, the way his face goes open and vulnerable and uncontrolled. It’s a good trade-off.

He gets to watch Prowl’s expression go from loose and easy to somewhat disgruntled at the mess of it all, too, and that’s one of his very favorite hobbies.

After, there’s a lot of shifting and shuffling and Scavenger vanishes for a moment before he comes back with an armful of towels and cloths. Everyone wipes themselves down and they even keep the pile of dirty cloths neat for Prowl. Once it’s all done, they all – every Constructicon and Jazz – turn to Prowl with the same expectant look.

“Absolutely not,” Prowl says, frowning already.

In the end, they do get him into the cuddle pile. It just requires a little bit of brute force.


End file.
